


Before the fall

by dioscureantwins



Series: After the Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>musings on a rooftop</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the fall

Beta: susako

Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

 

The sound of the shot sets his ears ringing, even though it is muffled by the bone and tissue that comprise the palate, the muscles, the flesh, the brain and the skin of what is in one half second to be Moriarty’s former head. Sherlock stands there panting, the resounding noise in his ears preventing him from hearing the thud when the falling body hits the surface of the roof.

He looks down, feeling completely empty. Two little pools of blood start their laborious trickling from the head. He doesn't spot any brain matter; it’s probably hidden beneath.  
His breathing is slowly recovering, his ears start to clear. Everything is eerily quiet, as if he's standing once more on the rocks of Dartmoor, scanning the landscape, and not on the rooftop of a hospital in one of the busiest cities on Earth. Slowly the sounds start seeping in – the wind swishing over the vents, billowing his coat round his legs and from deep down below, the ongoing rumble of traffic with the occasional wailing of a siren.

Two mindless minutes have passed but now a thought hits him – John. He is down there, in acute danger, what with the gun of a most likely nervous sharpshooter trained on him. And with Moriarty dead, there is no one to tell the man the job is cancelled. Stupid, stupid, stupid, two minutes lost, two minutes in which he has further endangered John's life.

He grabs his phone, sends the text they agreed upon to Molly. Mycroft is next.

His phone beeps: _plz be careful M xxx_

Stupid, sentimental girl. Yet he is grateful to her, extremely so.

She has done everything he required her to do without asking undue questions. He had watched her narrowly while unfolding his plan to her, registered the shock spreading over her face when she comprehended what he wanted her to do. Her first words were: “but what will John Watson…” He cut her off then with a bitten “my problem, not yours”; it came out as a bitter choke. The fact that her immediate thought was for John, the grief this would be causing him, drove home the near inhumanity of his plan once again like a nail in his flesh. His mind recoiled at the thought of all the anguish and the hurt he was going to put John through. But she had quickly come round to follow his reasoning, after he had made her see the intricacies of the web Moriarty had woven around them and she agreed she didn't want to be another fat fly caught in the glistening threads, passively awaiting her fate.

After that, all of her actions had been quick and efficient. She had even managed to place a most convincing phone call to John in order to lure him out of the lab How hard it had been for him to act all nonchalant and careless, but it had been necessary in order to plant yet more proof into John's mind that he was nothing but a heartless bastard, not worth John’s tears.

But then he knew what a smart brain Molly had underneath that blustering, awkward façade. After all, he has been observing her for years. And if he has occasionally taken advantage of her by flirting his way to the desperately needed dead body to flay/tissue samples to compare/electron microscope to identify pollen samples with he now swears a solid vow to John he will never treat Molly like that again. Better to promise John, then his oath is more likely to be kept. He will see John's stern face whenever he is about to break it.

Another beep: _5 minutes. MH_

This is it then. He throws a last look on Moriarty, his now dead nemesis. He was surely one to keep his promises. He can hear the voice, that sleazy slithering sound from the snake, with the lilting Irish accent that dropped out of the mouth in the head that was rolling and lolling in its lizard-like movement on the shoulders: “I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.” And he in his arrogance: “I'm reliably informed I don't have one.” Well, it turned out that wasn’t quite true.

Because he can feel it inside, the acid that is slowly, painfully starting to eat away at him. It nibbles at his stomach, spreading to his liver, his intestines and up to devour his lungs and finally his heart, savouring every cell, every particle of flesh. The raging fire in him consumes, licking and lingering to enjoy every small bite and he knows it will never reach the surface of his flesh, his skin. There is no way he can rip it out, throw it away, rid himself of it – the betrayal of his best friend, his only friend. John Watson.

Time to raise the curtain, show himself.

He counts every step to the edge of the roof and climbs the verge. With his long legs it's only a small step to take but it feels like he is heaving himself up an immense height. That's the sour substance burning, burning, burning away at his insides.

He spots John immediately, leaping from the taxi. Such an unobtrusive, unassuming man, yet his form leaps out at him straight away. Now John looks up, identifies his towering figure, edged stark against the overcast sky, starts. He grabs his phone, dials: 'John?' 'Sherlock.' John sounds thoroughly panicked and he has every reason to be for right now a hired and no doubt very competent assassin is hidden somewhere pointing a gun at him. But of course John doesn't know that and Sherlock can't tell him, though his heart is on fire. Telling John will result in his death and that's unacceptable. No, better to burn in this way.

John starts moving, he wants to come, his first instinct as ever to be at Sherlock's side, to face the danger together with him, fight with him, be near him. No, impossible – so he implores him, begs him to stay standing right where he is. Of course, John doesn't understand and that's the moment the fire inside turns Sherlock’s eyes into water; he feels the salt liquid brimming at the ridges, dropping over and coursing their liquid way over his cheeks, down to his mouth, where he tastes the bitter drops of his failure.

He sobs, his grief for John, for what he is about to put him through threatens to overwhelm him. John's voice is so steadfast, exuding that he doesn't believe the slander, the accusations, never will believe, whatever lies may be told. His face is a blur yet in his mind's eye he can see John so clearly, the upright posture, the trusting and open face that's so often lightened up by that slightly crooked smile, the setting of the crow's feet at the edges of his eyes. The eyes in which the amusement is forever laying in wait, ready to spring forward in the form of a gleam at Sherlock's next prank, rant or dramatic show of utter boredom.

So he starts denouncing himself. He has to do this, to lessen the pain for John, make him believe he was a fake from the start, leading John astray, flying high as a kite on his vanity, all to lessen the pain. He wants John to see that it's pathetic to cry over such a worthless creature, to move on, get it over with, start dating dull girls again and make a life for himself. A life without Sherlock, a good and worthy life, a life...

He sees the lorry rounding the corner. He has to end the call now. He instructs his mind to map every tone of John's voice, to hear every inflection, the way he pronounces the vowels. He rings off without a warning.

One last look and then he jumps...

The last sound he hears before the lorry races off is John's voice. Shouting his name.

Oh, the burning.


End file.
